


Lon

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Dry Humping, Lactation Kink, M/M, Male Lactation, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 16:38:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3216104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo quenches Sam’s thirst in more than one way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lon

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: They’re hobbits, so suspend your belief as necessary.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Rainwater’s better than the stuff they gather out of puddles, but none of it’s as good as the fresh, clean springs of the Shire. The air itself is tinged with soot, and Sam’s getting sick of picking dirt and little splinters out of his teeth. The cave they huddle in for the night is just as filthy as it is outside, but at least it heads of some of the downpour. It’s not even a cave so much as a slight overhang of rock, piled with others to be closed on three sides. Gollum’s already disappeared about the fourth, probably off to talk to himself in nasty, traitorous little hisses. 

Sam has half a mind to talk to Frodo again, use their privacy to wonder _what the hell they’re doing with such a monster_ , but he doesn’t want to strain their tenuous relationship. He can see the worry already in Frodo’s face, the fragility in his bones. He’s small and soft and too sweet for all these burdens, and Sam doesn’t want to give him one more thing to fight over. 

Instead, Sam huddles up next to Frodo at the back of their makeshift cave, the damp rock digging into their backs. They share the crumbs of lembas bread between them, swallowing every last bland morsel until there’s nothing left. Gollum will fetch his own food, and maybe some for Frodo, but Sam would still rather have a nice pint from the Shire to fill up both their stomachs. When the lembas is gone, Frodo crumbles up the leave and curls into Sam, savouring the warmth. Their body heat is all they have, most days, though they’ve been told the fires of Mordor will scorch everything away. For now, it’s cold and soggy and hard, and Sam’s mind flitters back to when they were younger, huddled under willow trees while Bilbo and Sam’s Old Gaffer yelled at them to come in out of the rain. But that was _Shire_ rain, lukewarm and gentle. 

This is enough to drive a man to his knees. There’s a steady pounding from the rain’s blows against the rock above, and the entrance to their cave is covered in a crystalline sheath of solid water. The light is dim and fading through it, dying out around their feet. Frodo’s toes are trembling, but he draws his legs back under himself and tries to rearrange his cloak, while Sam reaches an arm around his shoulders to try and keep him safe. 

Sam’s stomach growls, and he mumbles just to distract from all the drudgery around them, “Maybe we’ll get some milk soon.”

Frodo, for a brief moment, goes rigid in Sam’ arms. He turns his big blue eyes to Sam and repeats, “Milk?”

“You know. Maybe we’ll find a nice village with too many cows, and they’ll give us a swig. Or even a bit of goat milk.” With a sad chuckle, Sam adds, “Beggars can’t be choosers; I’d even take pig at this point! But with the state of this water, I’d go for just about anything else. Wouldn’t you?” Frodo’s cheeks are glowing a faint pink. The more Sam talks, the darker they get, and Sam has to ask, “What is it?”

Frodo mumbles, “Nothing,” shakes his head and looks away. Some of his dark curls brush Sam’s cheek, softer than they have any right to be. Sam’s own hair is a matted wreck. 

“Mr. Frodo...” Frodo shifts uncomfortably, drawing in on himself, and Sam pulls his curiosity back. He swore long ago he would never do Frodo any harm, emotional or otherwise. “If you’re sure.”

Frodo nods succinctly at no one in particular. Because Sam doesn’t know what he sad wrong, he says nothing, and the two of them sit in their own silence while the roar of the weather goes on outside. 

Then Frodo looks back at him, still blushing and frowning, before casting a long gaze at the entrance. Gollum’s nowhere in sight: nothing is. Frodo still leans into Sam and lowers his voice so quietly when he asks, “Do you... um... remember that secret I told you when I was little?”

Sam nods. He remembers just about everything Frodo tells him, even if his memory fails in so many other places. Frodo’s _secrets_ are to be treasured, but Frodo goes on anyway, like Sam’s forgotten, “About how I was born... differently... than I am. And Gandalf’s magic helped me... change.”

“I remember, Mr. Frodo,” Sam mumbles, just as quiet. He reaches for Frodo’s hand in the dark, finds it and squeezes it, reassuring. He’s not sure where it’s going now, but it’s clearly important to Frodo. Concentration washes over him, like he’s trying to gather courage, and Sam sits patiently and waits. 

Frodo sucks in a breath and says, “I could give you milk.”

Lost, Sam’s staring for a good few seconds before he realizes his mouth’s fallen open. He closes it. Frodo’s blushing hard and carries on in a harried tirade, “It wouldn’t be like a proper hobbitmaid, and I am a man, that is to say, I’ve always _really_ been one, and I don’t... I don’t bleed or anything like that, but... but there are parts of my body that still... that sometimes still think I... that I’m pregnant, Sam, I’m not, but I... I can sort of... I can make milk r-really easily, if you... if you want it, of course, if you don’t, I completely understand, I know how strange this must sound...” And he trails off in a nervous puddle, face dropping to watch his small fingers play with Sam’s. Sam knew Frodo’s secret and always felt honoured to have been told, but he didn’t think... he never thought...

Frodo’s body was never something he thought would be available to him, and all at once his curiosity’s twisting him again, horrible, invasive thoughts about what his dear Frodo might look like beneath his clothes. Sam tries to quench them down—it’s still none of his business—but it’s _Frodo_ , and Sam’s already had to repress the thought of kissing him, a hundred times if not a thousand...

Somehow, Sam’s awful mouth goes and asks, “So... if I... if I sucked on your... your breasts... I’d get milk?”

Nodding, Frodo mumbles, “Probably.” He doesn’t sound so sure anymore. He licks his lips, the movement catching Sam’s eyes, but he doesn’t say anymore. 

Sam’s voice is uncharacteristically high-pitched when he double-checks, “And you’re offering that?”

Frodo sucks in a breath. He lets it go, and they’re close enough that it drifts over Sam’s cheek, making him suppress a shiver. Frodo looks him in the eyes again and says, “Yes.” Now, more than ever, Sam’s filled with the urge to press their mouths together, but he knows that’s not the same invitation. He still can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Frodo brushes his thumb gently over the back of Sam’s hand, like _Sam’s_ the one that needs to be soothed. 

Sam gulps. His throat is suddenly much too dry. “I... I don’t mean to take advantage...” But he’d really, _really_ like to. More for Frodo’s body than the drink, though he can’t say that. Frodo licks his lips again, this time a slow, steady circle that turns the shallow pink a shimmering red and makes Sam want to latch on for dear life. Frodo’s hand slips out of his, lifting to his shoulders. 

He unclasps the front of his cloak and pushes it off his shoulders, letting it slither to the floor. Then he shuffles forward, drawing the cloak down like a too-thin mattress, and he leans back against it, stretching to lie down.

Sam stares in rapt attention as Frodo gathers the bottom of his shirt and bunches it up, tugging it over his stomach, revealing the first flash of pale peach skin, up a little higher, over his small ribs, right over his chest, reaching as high as it can. The coarse material finally stops across the top of his chest, rolled up beneath his armpits, but the majority of his torso’s revealed, from the tip of his breasts to the smattering of dark curls that disappears into his trousers. His hands stay in place at his shirt, holding it up and out of the way, and that imbalance makes it look like the rest of him is arching up, rising to meet Sam’s gaze. Sam’s transfixed, staring at the beautiful expanse of Frodo’s naked body without any hope of escape. His eyes are drawn mostly to the two dusty nipples that protrude off his flat breasts, round and rosy. Sam can feel his mouth watering just from the sight alone, and suddenly he feels like a dirty lecher that has absolutely no right to Frodo’s perfect body. 

But Frodo breathes, “Sam,” in the soft, alluring way of his that seems to promise Sam the world. There’s just no way to resist.

Sam mutters, “If you’re sure.” And then he bends down before Frodo can answer, placing one hand on the other side of Frodo’s trim torso to balance himself. He ducks his head over Frodo’s chest, and he can see it swell up to meet him, heaving with each exaggerated breath. Sam has to wonder if Frodo’s ever done this before, offered this to anyone, but then knows from the nervousness in Frodo’s body that this must be the first time. Frodo’s never had anyone that special, anyway, to Sam’s jealous pleasure. Maybe he should’ve spoken up a long time ago, so he could’ve enjoyed this back at home. 

As it is, this journey’s finally amounted to something. Sam dips his tongue out just enough to catch the center of Frodo’s nipple, and Frodo makes a keening noise that makes everything _worth it._ It doesn’t matter anymore that they’re stuck with a vile creature guiding them to certain doom; Sam’s got Frodo on his back, and Frodo gasps as Sam’s tongue peeks out again, this time pressing in much harder. He drags it around the little nub that rises to meet him, made a bit stiffer each time Sam pokes at it. So he laps at it over and over, tracing wet circles that have nothing to do with milk and every once in a while grazing it with his teeth. Frodo quivers beneath him, and finally the pebbled center is hard enough for Sam to take in his mouth. He wraps his lips tight around it and looks up through his lashes. 

Frodo’s staring down at him through dilated pupils, half-lidded eyes and dark cheeks, lips parted and panting. He looks like something straight out of Sam’s wet dreams, and Sam has to fight the instant urge to press his hand between Frodo’s legs to feel just how far that pleasure look goes. But of course, Sam’s spent his life restraining himself around Frodo, and he takes only what he was given: permission to drink from Frodo’s breasts. 

He sucks with a greedy, wild hunger. On the first go, there’s nothing, just the delight of having Frodo in his mouth and Frodo’s prone body squirming beneath him. Then he sucks again, and something creamy and sweet filters into his mouth, just a little bit, slicking right down his tongue and into his eager throat. It’s wonderfully sugary, smooth and a little warm, so much _better_ than the cow milk Sam spoke of earlier. Hobbit milk is known amongst their people to be the greatest treat there is, and Frodo’s is particularly rich and delicious. Honestly, Sam never though he’d get any past the infancy he doesn’t remember, not until he at least married a woman willing to share, even though he _always_ wanted Frodo. That never seemed like an option. Now, with Frodo’s invitation, Sam can’t help but wonder about the possibilities; surely Frodo wouldn’t bare himself like this to someone he had no interest in. Sam would’ve loved him anyway, without any milk, but this is a little slice of heaven. 

Once it’s in his mouth, Sam can’t stop. He hasn’t had anything so tasty in months, maybe beyond that—Elves, even home, never tasted this good. The more he sucks, the easier the stream comes, pouring into his waiting mouth as he suckles Frodo’s tit with an almost feral thirst. He means to be gentle and careful with his teeth, but it’s so hard not to be _rough_ and just devour everything Frodo has to offer. Frodo makes it harder by bucking lightly up into him. Sometimes Frodo’s body collapses with his breath, and his pert nipple is tugged between Sam’s teeth, still held hostage while Sam sucks it hard. Other times, Frodo grinds his chest up into Sam’s face, and Sam’s suckling is made all the easier. The whole time, Frodo is making beautiful noises, breathy, needy things, panting and whining and a bit of keening, while his warm flesh trembles and squirms beneath Sam’s weight. It takes all Sam has not to grab Frodo’s hips, slam him down, and grind him into the floor. 

Sam’s _ravenous._ He drinks load after load of Frodo’s milk, until it’s puttering off and each suck only gives him a fraction of a mouthful. He sucks anyway, working Frodo’s poor nipple until there’s nothing left and he’s sucked Frodo completely dry. 

He gives a few extra tugs, anyway, just because he doesn’t want to relinquish his hold. But he does, and he finally let’s go, after making sure to carefully swallowed and lick away everything that he got. 

When he pops off Frodo’s nipple, there’s a wet, smacking sound. He lifts on his elbows, hovering over it and staring down, to where a moist, pink circle has painted Frodo’s skin from the pressure and the suction. The nipple itself is an angry red and looks rubbed raw, one stray string of saliva still connecting it and Sam’s mouth. He gives it a tentative little lick, wanting to soothe it, but that only makes Frodo cry out, his head tossing back. 

Sam wipes the spittle off his mouth and breathes hoarsely, “Sorry,” while staring at what he did. The taste is still with him. He’s not sure he wants to eat anything else for this whole trip; he just wants to hold onto this taste. For a moment, he’s stuck where he is, half dizzy with ecstasy and half terrified at how turned-on he is. Frodo stays sprawled across the floor. Somewhere along the line, his fingers have drifted to clutch at his cloak, and there are heavy wrinkles where he’s fisted it. Frodo’s panting, hard, his chest rising and falling high with the effort. 

Then he arches right off the floor, overt and unmistakable, his legs bent and rubbing together while his face lolls to look at Sam, his dark hair a tousled halo around his head. He looks so debauched that Sam’s struck speechless, his protective instincts making him just want to wrap Frodo up in warm blankets and nurse him back to his old smiles. But Frodo moans to him, “The other one...?” And any good intentions go right out the window. 

Without even thinking, Sam splays one hand over Frodo’s stomach and pushes him down—Frodo goes into place with a tiny, ‘oomf.’ Sam dives in, attacking the other nipple with his tongue, lapping at it again and again while his blunt teeth circle around it, trying to draw it out as soon as possible. Frodo’s milk is as addictive as alcohol, and Sam can’t help but wonder when it’ll grow again—will he be allowed to have more? He hopes so. He nuzzles at Frodo’s nipple until it pebbles in his mouth, and then he’s latching on and sucking with all his might, drawing a puddle of warm milk into his mouth. It’s just as delicious as the last load, and he moans around his mouthful, while Frodo makes a muffled sort of scream. Sam’s eyes dart up to catch Frodo stuffing one hand against his mouth, stifling the cries. His other hand reaches for Sam’s hair, threads into the blond curls and holds him on. That only encourages Sam. 

He means to just be drinking, but his body moves of it’s own accord, and soon he’s got one leg thrown over Frodo’s, and he’s rocking his crotch against Frodo’s thigh. He can feel a hard bulge between Frodo’s legs, but Frodo’s too pinned down beneath Sam’s weight to do anything about it. Sam shifts that weight onto one elbow, and the first time Frodo tries to hump him, that’s all the sign Sam needs. He dips his other hand between Frodo’s squirming thighs and rubs his palm over the growing bulge. A particularly thick stream of milk spurts into Sam’s mouth, and Frodo makes a beautiful half-cry, half-moan, his hips wildly grinding up into Sam’s palm. Sam cups his fingers around Frodo’s hard cock and massages it through the fabric, his mind now racing to what other parts of Frodo’s body he can put in his mouth. Obviously, Frodo likes having Sam’s tongue on him, and there’re so many other parts of Frodo’s gorgeous being that Sam would love to lick. 

Even when he runs out of milk, Sam doesn’t stop, even though he knows he should; he’s torturing Frodo’s poor, abused nipple, but it tastes too good to let go of, and Frodo keeps making those delicious sounds. Sam squeezes his cock hard enough that he lets go of the cloak and Sam’s hair, lunging instead at Sam’s shoulders, locking tight around them. It gives Sam no room to breathe, and he has to push Frodo off, letting his hostage go at the same time. He moves, instead, up to Frodo’s face, and he looks into Frodo’s lust-filled eyes, still asking for permission. Frodo looks so impossibly aroused, and when Sam doesn’t do anything, he closes his eyes and tilts his chin up, just begging Sam to come down. Sam slams into him, his overworked tongue slipping right between Frodo’s lips. 

Frodo’s mouth is everything Sam thought it would be. Warm, wet, soft, _so good_ —he wonders if Frodo can taste the milk on his tongue, then thinks it his duty to share, and he sucks Frodo’s tongue into his mouth. Frodo makes the most wanton noises Sam’s ever heard and clutches to his shoulders, trying to flatten them together. Frodo’s smaller, naked torso is trapped between Sam and the floor, his little legs parting around Sam’s, and they rock together in a sweaty, panting mess. It’s all Sam can do to keep himself together, and he can’t stop _kissing_ Frodo, even though he has so many things he wants to say, like how he’s been in love with Frodo for as long as he can remember and Frodo’s so desperately pretty and Sam would probably kill to get more of that milk. But all he can do is hump Frodo’s pliant body and ravage his eager mouth, until Sam’s shivering in ecstasy and his whole mind blanks out. 

He comes with a roar that goes right into Frodo’s mouth, his body tensing as he jerks his final throes against Frodo’s crotch. Frodo whines and clings to him, legs up in the air, fingers clawing at his back, mouth open and nose digging into his. Sam slams their boiling foreheads together, pinning Frodo to the rock, as the orgasm rips through him and leaves nothing in its wake. 

Frodo’s crying out shrilly, and it takes Sam a second, full of struggling to breathe and think, to realize that Frodo’s finishing, too. He tosses up into Sam a few more times, then slumps back against the floor, lying there, spent and limp and all at Sam’s mercy. 

Sam knows he should probably roll off but can’t, so he just lets himself collapse on top of Frodo, muttering a quiet, “Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo.” Frodo’s sticky and stifling hot beneath him, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Frodo mumbles weakly, “Was it good?” And Sam just laughs, because ‘good’ is such an understatement that he doesn’t know where to start. He presses an affectionate kiss to Frodo’s cheek in lieu of being able to talk. Frodo looks back at him with such adoration that he wonders how he could’ve missed it before. 

Sam has so much more to say. But they’re not back in the Shire, tucked into warm beds with only themselves to see, and quiet footsteps patter through the puddles outside. Sam scrambles instantly up to his knees, whirling around to place his body protectively in front of Frodo’s, but it’s only Gollum slinking in. 

He spits a whole fish, still flailing, onto the floor. Then he smiles his horrible, missing teeth at Frodo, like he did well and deserves a pat on the head. 

Sam, too exhausted to deal with that right now, shuffles back against the cave wall. He feels full like he hasn’t in months, and he’s not about to ruin that with a sickly fish, even though Frodo smiles and praises their odd third addition, who clambers into the cave to complete their awkward little found-family, lost out in the big, not-so-bad-after-all world.


End file.
